dawned, that Whitsunday so long looked forward to, so anxiously desired, she was already far away, but as the new organ gave out its first sweet tones that festival eve, the thoughts of two at least within the little church turned for a moment towards the absent May.

Space will not allow us to follow her in the new life on which she was now entering, or describe its various trials and difficulties. The lady with whom she was placed treated her with the greatest kindness, and her little pupils soon grew fond of her; still it was not like home, and she keenly felt the separation from her mother. It was the first she had known, and she missed the kind words and loving smiles to which she had ever been accustomed, and longed for them again with all the yearning and home sickness which those alone can fully understand who have been similarly placed. But no word of complaint or discontent was allowed to find its way into her long letters home, and she went quietly on, doing her best to give satisfaction and perform the various duties which lay in her way. And one great pleasure she also had, in being still able to keep up her organ practice, through the kindness of the clergyman of the parish, who accidentally learning her wish to do so, offered her the use of their organ for the purpose, and May's happiest leisure hours were those spent in the quiet old church, working patiently on and still looking forward to the time when they might be turned to good

account.

But brighter days were at hand. Nine months had passed and spring was again drawing near when a lawyer's letter was placed in Mrs. Elson's hand, the letter for which she had so long been looking. Her hopes had not been vain, the lawsuit had at last terminated, and in her favour, and the mother's heart overflowed with thankfulness as she sat with the open paper in her hand. May might now return home, for with this addition to her little income, it would be sufficient to maintain them both, and tears of joy rose to her eyes as she reverently bent her head and her lips moved in silent prayer.

Great was the satisfaction among rich and poor through

out the village, when it became known, that May was once more coming back to live among them. To all alike she had equally endeared herself by her many acts of kindness, and gentle winning ways, and all were eager to welcome her home, while Nora Ireton gladly offered her services in the necessary preparations. They were as gladly accepted and for the next three months she and Mrs. Elson were hard at work in the furnishing and arranging of a pretty white cottage, (which she was now able to take,) anxious that all should be completed for May's return home the following Whitsuntide. And home she came, fresh and bright as the spring sunshine which shone around her. As she threw open the gate and entered the little dwelling where her mother stood waiting to receive her, sunshine too seemed to follow her and make the simple cottage as bright and cheery as any palace.

Whitsunday again approached, the warm rosy light was stealing through the windows of her little whitehung chamber, when May unclosed her eyes the morning after her return, and she started up and drew aside the curtain beside her with a hand trembling with eagerness. Day had at last dawned, that day to which she had so long looked forward, for her wish was at last to be fulfilled, her working and waiting had not been in vain, and this Whitsun Eve she was to make her first trial.

There was no more sleep for May this morning, though it was still quite early and scarce any but the birds seemed yet awake; she rose, and then quietly and very earnestly thought over all that was about to happen and tried to prepare aright for the duties and pleasures of the coming day. If her manner were more subdued and her brow graver than usual, when she joined her mother in the little sitting-room, no home in all Riverton held a happier heart than that of May Elson.

Breakfast over, the duties of the day commenced, and what happy ones they were, pleasures May would have said, as with a heavily laden basket on her arm, she set out on a round of visits to her poorer friends. Then there were familiar scenes to visit, and other friends

also to see, so much to say and hear after her long absence, for she had but returned late the evening before. Later in the day too there was the happy meeting in the schoolrooms to put the finishing touches to the carefully prepared wreaths and garlands, and still better their final arrangement in the church itself, where voices were reverently hushed and tongues silenced as the work went At last all was finished, and everything prepared for the holy eve service.

on.

Evening came, the last rays of the setting sun were stealing over hill and dale, and the church bell telling of Whitsun hope and gladness, ringing_merrily, when the gate of the white cottage opened, and May walked quietly down the village street by her mother's side. Now that the moment so ardently longed for was really at hand she seemed scarcely able to realise it, and many mingled thoughts and recollections crowded upon her and kept her thoughtful and silent. The present, how vividly did its sights and scenes recall the past-the same happy faces round, the same joyous chime, and the quiet sunset sky-all seemed to bring back that well remembered day two years before, as though it had been but yesterday. Two years! and yet all seemed so unchanged, so unaltered. Once more, as she had done that Whitsuntide so many months before, May paused at the church door; yes, there all again looked just as it had done then, the white pillars hung with garlands, the sunshine streaming through the windows, and lighting up the altar cross. But was all the same with her? A sudden pang shot through her heart as the question presented itself, and her lips quivered, but only for a moment, for if those past two years had brought their trials they had also been fraught with many and great blessings, and as the thought of these again welled up, and past pain was forgotten in the joy of the present, May felt that with true thankfulness she could say with the Psalmist of old, "It is good for me that I have been in trouble."

But this was no time to linger now, and with quiet gladness in her face, and a whispered "GOD bless you, my child," from her mother, she passed up the aisle and for the first time took her place within the chancel

screen. As she entered, and felt the attention of many turned upon her, her step faltered and her colour came and went quickly, but once within the chancel where the projecting side of the archway in which the organ stood partially concealed her from view, all such feelings vanished, and as she rose from her knees, and took her seat, the nervous colour had gone, and the calm, glad expression resumed its place.

The bell ceased, for a moment all eyes were directed towards the young organist, and her mother bent anxiously forward, lest her courage should fail at the last moment. But she need not have feared, May's thoughts were far other than those of dread lest she might not acquit herself creditably before so many, her heart was centred on the one object which now engrossed it wholly, and the presence of others scarcely remembered in that One to whom she was now about to dedicate the talent, the gift, which she possessed. Presently a door opened, and then as priest and choir entered and took their places in the chancel, a simple melody floated down the aisle, faint at first, for the hands which struck the notes, slightly trembled, but they soon grew firm, and the strain rose louder and fuller, till it seemed like a hymn of praise and thanksgiving from the heart, not hands alone, and all else seemed forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Many were the congratulations which crowded around May when she left the church at the conclusion of the service, and praises of her touch, her execution and style of playing met her on every side. Gladly would she have escaped them, were it possible, they seemed illsuited and out of place at such a time, and gave her pain rather than pleasure when her mind was so full of other thoughts. One only beside her mother seemed to understand, and that was Mr. Ireton; when he joined them shortly afterwards he offered no congratulation, or word of praise and approval; but they were not needed, the kind, warm pressure of the hand and look of true sympathy, were all she could have wished and showed how fully he entered into and shared her feelings.

The day was over, lights faded one by one from the cottage windows, the sun had long since set, but still

May knelt in her little chamber. There were traces of tears upon her cheeks, but tears of joy, not of sorrow, and as the moon came out from behind the dark cloud which obscured it, and silvered the neighbouring treetops and the spire which rose among them, May bent her head and prayed long and earnestly that henceforth she might be enabled to consecrate, not one gift alone, but her whole heart and life to the service of GOD and His Church.

JOHN KEBLE.

"In JESU obdormivit."

A PRIEST has fallen at the altar ;-one
Found faithful to his priestly stewardship-
A poet-priest withal-a leader brave

In the vanguard of the Church

KEBLE IS DEAD:
Keble, the friend of Pusey the Beloved:
Keble, the Laureate of the English Church.

And on the day we went to bury him,
Priestly and laic friends who held him dear
Knelt at the altar he had served so long,
And took the mystic Bread from other hands.
And usual matins o'er-for Keble's church
Was paved with knees of worship, morn and eve,
"Daily throughout the year;" following the book
That we who love it hold the second book,
The Church's comment on the blessed first-
With solemn voice his curate then intoned
The hope-fraught burial words mid stifled sobs:
Six surpliced priests then bore the violet pall
Whereon a red cross gleamed; and forth we went
To seek the humble grave; and as we pass'd
From out his beauteous church, his people wept:
All Hursley wept, for they had lost a priest-
Wept as we left the altar; for he there
Had fed them with the Body of the LORD,

And held the chalice of the Wine of Life

To their white lips when parch'd with this world's drought

Wept as we left the pulpit hung with black,

Where he had stood, but nevermore would stand,

To give them loving counsel for their weal